


The Adventure Of The Three Garridebs (1902)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [204]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Angry John Watson, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Gay Sex, Guns, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Secret Identity, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 06:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11800791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In a third cased based upon a rich inheritance, the beneficiaries of a will keep meeting unfortunate ends – and Sherlock ends up upsetting John. But he can make it up to him...





	The Adventure Of The Three Garridebs (1902)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



Apart from allowing me to go to town on his body to mark my fiftieth birthday on January the twenty-fourth of that year (which meant that I spent most of the rest of January alternatively ruing and having happy memories over), Sherlock had allowed that unfortunate milestone in my life to pass quietly. I did not want him to buy anything for me that, when I looked at in future years, would keep reminding me just how old I had been when I had received it, though I was somewhat surprised (and, perversely, a little disappointed) that he agreed to my request so readily.

All together now. I really, _really_ should have known better!

+~+~+

The young man sat in the famous fireside chair in Baker Street that mid-September morn was fairly nondescript. Early middle-age, his dark hair already showed signs of thinning and was still drying out from the sharp shower which had evidently caught him on his way here. Mr. Nicholas Clegg was every inch the dutiful clerk clerk working for a notable firm of lawyers in Mile End, east London. The only thing slightly unusual had been his opening statement, concerning the reasons for his visit.

“I am afraid that my fellow clerk is about to try to kill my employer!”

That had earnt him a quizzical raise of the eyebrows from Sherlock, and I had stopped taking notes to make sure that I had heard him correctly. He duly repeated what he had said, and his earnest expression seemed only to back up his unusual statement.

“”Why do you think that?” Sherlock asked, sitting back. Our guest took a deep breath.

“It is a long story”, he said. “It starts with a rich Dutch merchant at the start of the last century, a Mr. Hendrik Garrideb. Some time around 1840 his son Willem arrived in England from the Netherlands and set up a merchant shipping business here, which duly prospered. Unfortunately, although successful in business he was unlucky in marriage; all his three marriages ended in divorce, the last one particularly badly.”

“From his marriages Mr. Willem Garrideb had had six sons and three daughters, so one might have presumed the line to have been securely established. He did not however value any of them particularly highly, and upon his death last year – he lived to be nearly one hundred, by the way – he was estranged from nearly all of them. Only one grandson, my employer Mr. Jefferson Garrideb, was retained by him, which was how my company ended up administering the estate.”

Our client paused for breath.

“As he grew older, Mr. Willem Garrideb contrived to grow even further apart from his offspring”, he went on, “and apart from my employer, lost touch with his other grandchildren and his great-grand-children. He developed certain, ahem, prejudices, which emerged on his death in a most remarkable will. As expected, the estate was to be equally divided between all his blood descendants – but there was a catch.”

“There usually is”, I remarked. Sherlock smiled.

“In fact, several catches”, our visitor said. “First at the time of our client's death the beneficiaries had to not be or to have ever been Catholics. “Mr. Willem Garrideb's third wife had converted to that faith, and I believe that that was a factor in the marriage failing. Second, the beneficiaries also had to be a male Garrideb, and thirdly, they had in addition to be the offspring of an extant marriage.”

Sherlock clearly spotted my confused face, even though I was not looking at him.

“Legally, that means the beneficiary's parents had to either be married or to have ended their marriage by death of one or the other partner”, he said. “So divorce would debar them from inheriting. A most clever way to rule out his own sons and daughters.”

“Who, as it turned out, all predeceased him anyway”, our visitor said, “his youngest son dying only two months before him. And that last clause was particularly unfortunate, as things turned out. Shortly before Mr. Willem Garrideb died, my employer suffered a split with his lady wife, and they were separated at the time of the death. That means, of course, that neither of my employer's two sons qualify to inherit; upon Mr. Jefferson's death his inheritance will revert to the estate. Fortunately they are back together again now, the misunderstanding having been cleared up.”

I prided myself that I noted Sherlock's raised eyebrows at that, although I had no idea why he found it so interesting.

"My employer was tasked with tracking down the grandsons and great-grandsons", our visitor said, "and I myself was involved in that great work. The estate was to be divided equally amongst all of the second- and third-generation offspring qualifying, regardless of whether a parent of theirs also inherited. That was why James and William were so unfortunate; they could have been very rich had Mr. Willem Garrideb died two months either earlier or later."

“I see a problem there", Sherlock said at once. “Was there not a conflict of interest for your employer? The more Garridebs he found, the less his own share would be.”

“Mr. Willem Garrideb had thought of that”, our visitor explained. “A large sum was set aside for my employer's efforts, and he had not only to spend it all but to render full accounts of his expenditure to two independent trustees from other law firms. But Mr. Jefferson is too honest to have done anything less than his best, even considering the prize on offer.”

“Do you know the actual value of the estate?” Sherlock asked.

“It was in excess of twenty thousand pounds, after various minor gifts to servants and a charity back in the Netherlands”, Mr. Clegg said. “There was one other minor condition, although it did not affect the number of beneficiaries after the earlier ones had been applied; the recipient had to be in paid employment at the time of our client's death. Mr. Jefferson was, after great effort, able to locate two male Garridebs who qualified, both great-grandsons of Mr. Willem. Each joined my employer in receiving just under seven thousand pounds gross; Mr. Andrew Garrideb, a banker in Norwich, and Mr. John Garrideb, a doctor at a hospital in Barnstable, in Devonshire. Both were in their early twenties.”

“Were?” I asked, picking up on the past tense. He looked at me gravely.

“Three months ago, Mr. John Garrideb was murdered on his way home from work”, our guest said. “It was about midday when the attack took place. The hospital said that he would have been tired after a double shift, so he would probably not have been able to defend himself very well. The police could find no motive for the attack.”

He looked at us awkwardly, before continuing. 

“One of the terms of the inheritance was that our firm had to make periodic visits to the beneficiaries, to make sure that they still fulfilled the conditions”, he said. “Mr. Willem Garrideb had a pathological fear of someone killing his heirs and taking their place – I recall my employer saying that a psychic had warned him of such a thing, or some such nonsense - so he had insisted on at least three checks at random times throughout the year on each beneficiary, and that the beneficiaries were not be alerted beforehand. The clerk that I was telling you about, Mr. Hempton Black, was delegated to go and see the two gentlemen. He was visiting Mr. John Garrideb on the day he was killed.”

I whistled through my teeth.

“Let me hazard a totally wild guess at this point”, Sherlock said dryly. “Mr. Black was also visiting Mr. Andrew Garrideb when something befell the latter?”

Our visitor nodded.

“Someone switched his tablets, and he was poisoned with the replacements”, he said. He hesitated before adding, “I know that Mr. Black has a book about poisons on his bookshelf which I saw one time that I was there, but when I looked recently, it had gone.”

“Wait a minute”, I said. “What about motive? Mr. Black cannot stand to gain by this, surely?”

“That is what I do not understand”, Mr Clegg said, wringing his hands. “I like Hemmy; he is quiet enough, but a good sort underneath the bad jumpers. But the facts..... well, I am nervous, gentlemen.”

I thought of Sherlock's own fascination with jumpers, and smiled.

“Do you think that this Mr. Black may be of the impression that your employer might leave his business, or at least a share of it, to him?” Sherlock asked, looking at me sharply for some reason.

Our visitor nodded.

“I wondered if that might be motive”, he admitted. “Neither of his boys look interested in following him yet, though they are both still young. But it seems unlikely. And Hemmy just does not seem the sort to go round murdering people in cold blood!”

“Few murderers do”, Sherlock said sagely. "I have another important question. Now that Mr. Jefferson Garrideb is the sole beneficiary of a huge estate that his sons cannot inherit, who benefits if he passes on?”

“I should have explained that none of the beneficiaries received all the money 'up front' as they say”, Mr. Clegg said, once again looking apologetically at us. “The arrangement was that their inheritance would be paid into a deposit account, and that they would receive ten per cent of it per annum for the next ten years, receiving the interest accrued with the final payment. If – God forbid! - there are no beneficiaries living, the trustees are empowered to spend up to one-tenth of the value of the estate searching for more Garridebs, and would only then be allowed to include the descendants of Mr. Willem Garrideb's sole brother, Mauritz. Should they fail to find any, then the money goes to three charities in equal proportions.” 

And Mr. Hempton Black would have many years in which to enrich himself in the process, I thought acidly.

“Has anyone inquired as to if there are any such descendants?” Sherlock asked.

“Mr. Jefferson ordered a full search once he realized that there were only three beneficiaries to start with”, our visitor said. “Perhaps surprisingly, although Mr. Mauritz Garrideb had five children, none of his descendants qualify, so the charities would benefit after all.”

“Your employer sent Mr. Black to these towns", Sherlock said. “Is he the senior clerk or you?”

“I am”, Mr. Clegg said, “Do you think that you may be in a position to help us?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Clegg”, he said hesitantly, “client confidentiality is as important in my line of work as it is in yours, if not more so. I am currently engaged in a most delicate matter involving a certain member of Continental royalty, and I am expecting certain news that I requested to come in, some time in the next two days, whereon most likely I shall have to act immediately. I wish that I were free, but I cannot attend directly to your case before Friday at the earliest, although I shall of course initiate certain lines of inquiry by the telegraphic system. I hope that that is acceptable.”

“I have to travel to Dover on business on that same day and will be meeting my employer, who is returning from France”, our visitor said with a sigh. “I do not suppose that anything will happen whilst he is out of the country. Friday afternoon at my offices would be fine.”

He placed a card on the table and I noted the address, a quality one near the Tower. He then bowed, and left.

+~+~+

Sherlock waited until some few moments after he had gone before leaping to his feet. I would have asked why he had lied about our having an important case just then, but he looked to be in a hurry.

“I must go!" he said, pulling on his dreadful long-coat. “It may be too late, but I need to move now.”

“Why?” I asked, confused. 

“To save a man's life”, he said. 

“But Mr. Jefferson Garrideb is in France”, I reminded him. “Unless you think he may be attacked on the train?”

“It is not he whose life is in danger”, Sherlock said, taking up the card that our visitor had just left. “Go to the window and tell me if he has left yet.”

I did so.

“He is just getting into a cab”, I said, feeling increasingly bewildered.

“It is fortunate that I have a contact close to there who is suitable”, he said, taking the card and hurrying over to the door. “I shall not be long.”

He was gone before I could ask for any further explanation. I stared after him in confusion. Looking out of the window, I saw him fairly sprint across the road to the post office, and wondered who he was telegraphing.

+~+~+

The following morning, Mr. Nicholas Clegg burst into our rooms looking decidedly dishevelled. It was not as bad as Sherlock first thing in the morning – in nearly thirty years together, I had yet to find anything that came close – but it was far from his relatively spruce appearance the day before.

“Mr. Black has fled to the country!” he snapped, as if this development were somehow our fault. “Apparently someone went to the business yesterday and threatened him, and now he says that he is terrified. I went to his house, but his landlady says that he did not even leave a forwarding address!”

Sherlock tutted as if this was some minor inconvenience. 

“I managed to make some inquiries in this case”, he said casually, pouring himself his fourth coffee of the morning (him and his iron bladder!). “There was a small detail that you did not tell me yesterday, and as things turned out, it was rather an important one.”

“Sir, I assure you...”

“When I asked you if a search had been carried out for any descendants of Mr. Mauritz Garrideb who might inherit on your employer's untimely demise, you merely told me that a search had been undertaken and none found.”

“Well, yes.” 

Now our visitor looked as bewildered as I felt. Sherlock fixed him with a look.

“You did not mention that your colleague, Mr. Hempton Black, carried out that search.”

“Yes, but....”

“In the event of your employer's demise, the trustees may not have to look very far for one of Mr. Mauritz Garrideb's descendants. In fact, they might start by looking at - your colleague.”

Our visitor's face went white.

“Hemmy?” he gasped. My friend nodded.

“I contacted a friend who has access to such things, and he read the will to me”, Sherlock said. “The phraseology only requires that a beneficiary be _officially_ titled Mr. Garrideb, and registered as such at birth with his not having formally changed his name since. It does not preclude him from calling himself something else to those around him. A beneficiary would call themselves Mr. Abracadabra Zymurgia Infinity-Codswallop if he so wished, provided he did not seek to _officially_ change his name. Or he could call himself....”

Our guest slumped in his chair.

“Hemmy!”

“Grandson of Mauritz Garrideb, son of Pieter Garrideb and Miss Patricia Deddington”, Sherlock said. “Miss Deddington's home village of the same name is close by the village of Hempton, from which he took his alias, and her mother's maiden name was Black.”

Mr. Clegg gladly accepted the whisky I poured for him, and he looked more than capable of taking another.

“But if he did make a claim, everyone would know that he killed them”, he said, clearly trying to re-balance his suddenly topsy-turvy world.

“English juries tend to require rather more in the way of facts than someone happening to be in the area when a murder occurred”, Sherlock said grimly. “No, if we are to flush the killer out, I am very much afraid that we will need...... bait.”

Our visitor looked at us in confusion, before the words registered.

“Mr. Jefferson?” he snorted. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Mr. Clegg, until this killer is behind bars, your employer is in mortal danger”, Sherlock said firmly. “Now, you said that he is returning to Dover on Friday. From Calais?”

Mr. Clegg nodded. 

“The morning ferry”, he said. “I am meeting him at the station there, and we will travel to London together.”

“Will he reach the station first, or you?” Sherlock asked. 

Mr. Clegg thought, and went even paler. I knew his answer before he spoke.

“He said he would be there by eleven”, he said, ashen-faced, “and my train does not get in until a quarter past. And.... Hemmy knows that!”

“Consider it from a killer's viewpoint, if you can”, Sherlock said pointedly. “All that stands between you and all that money, in a small railway carriage, standing at a town station......”

Our visitor shuddered.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Be circumspect”, Sherlock advised. “Go about your business as usual. You may be followed on Friday just to make sure that you are on the train; after all, the stakes are very high here. If you do see someone, for Heaven's sake, ignore them. We want Mr. Black to feel sure that you are in Kent, otherwise the killer will not do what I expect him to do.”

“Which is?” Mr. Clegg asked.

“The removal of your employer”, Sherlock said calmly.

The man looked as if he was about to faint.

“Do not worry”, my friend said. “I will have a network of people in place on the day, all highly-paid professionals. I can all but guarantee Mr. Jefferson Garrideb's personal safety.”

Mr, Clegg did not look convinced. I wondered about that 'all but'.

+~+~+

On Thursday afternoon, Sherlock and I adjourned to Victoria for a South Eastern and Chatham train to Dover. It would have been easier and faster to go from Charing Cross, but Sherlock must have remembered that that line passed through Tonbridge. That town would forever raise bad memories for me, but I still had my man.

We reached Dover and settled into a hotel for the night. It was quite fortuitous that there were seagulls screeching outside for much of it, as it his the screeching coming from inside as Sherlock managed to drag three orgasms in succession out of what remained of my body. He was concerned when I had tears in my eyes afterwards, but I kissed him until he understood that they were tears of happiness. 

The following morning we – well, Sherlock and what was left of me - headed to the station, where we were to meet Mr. Clegg, who was coming down on an earlier train than planned. From the look of him, he had not slept much.

“You were right”, he said. “There was someone waiting outside my house this morning despite the ungodly hour, and he followed me in a cab all the way to Charing Cross! Fortunately I have found Mr. Garrideb, and have made sure that he is safe and secure in his own compartment. Is all well with you, gentlemen?”

“I think so”, Sherlock smiled. “I am sorry we are a little late, but I think that we still have ten minutes before departure.

Mr. Clegg seemed about to say something when he glanced over Sherlock's shoulder, and his face froze.

“I do not believe it!” he hissed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You said that you were watching him!” he hissed at Sherlock. “That is him!”

“Who?” I asked,

He gestured along the platform to where a short man in dark glasses reading a newspaper was glancing over it at us.

“Hemmy!”, Mr. Clegg hissed. “I would know that coat of his anywhere!”

“Mr. Clegg....” Sherlock began.

“I have to get to Mr. Garrideb!” he said frantically, hurrying to the carriage. 

Sherlock looked pointedly at me and I nodded, racing after the man. We both barrelled along a corridor until we reached a compartment, where an elderly gentleman lay apparently asleep. Mr. Clegg moved to wake him, but I restrained him.

“Something is wrong”, I said urgently. “Wait outside. _And do not let anyone in!_ ”

He nodded frantically, and nearly broke the glass in the door in the fervour with which he pulled it shut. I quickly pulled down the blinds and began my work.

+~+~+

Five minutes later, I emerged to find Sherlock and an ashen-faced Mr. Clegg in the corridor. I slowly shook my head.

“Poison”, I said. “He may have been suffocated before, but I cannot be sure of that. A _post mortem_ would confirm it.”

“I knew it!” Mr. Clegg growled. “So much for your guarantees, Mr. Holmes! He killed him!”

“At least I shall have the satisfaction of taking in a murderer today”, Sherlock said calmly. “The police are waiting for us in the waiting-room. Shall we go?”

“What about Mr. Garrideb?” Mr. Clegg demanded. “And his killer?”

“All taken care of”, Sherlock said. “I am having the body removed before the train leaves. A killer awaits justice. Let us go.”

+~+~+

When we reached the waiting-room, Mr. Clegg was clearly both surprised and displeased not to find his fellow clerk there. A lone constable nodded to us, and remained standing.

“Where is Hemmy?” our client demanded. “I thought you said that they had arrested him?”

“That would be difficult”, Sherlock said. “After all, it is not as if he has murdered anybody.”

Mr, Clegg looked at him as if he were mad.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. I tensed.

“I said that I would arrest a killer”, Sherlock said. “I was referring to _you_ , Mr. Clegg. And before you do anything even more stupid than you have already done, kindly be aware that the hand in the doctor's pocket is currently holding a revolver, and if you force him to fire through his jacket, he will not be best pleased. He may aim his first shot low.”

“You are mad!”

“I do not think so”, Sherlock said. “No, Mr. Clegg – or perhaps I should call you by your real name, the one that you hid from your employer. _Mr. Nicholas Garrideb._ ”

“Lies! All lies!” 

The man was frantic now. I steadied my gun.

“You found out about the Garrideb inheritance a long time ago, and got yourself employed by your cousin who, you knew, would most likely end up administering it”, Sherlock said. “Your plan was simple – remove any people between you and the money, and claim all. You even managed to engineer a split between your employer and his wife, thus disinheriting her sons and removing two more rivals; I suppose that we should be grateful you did not kill them too, although had they remained beneficiaries, I would not have expected them to have long life expectancies.”

“There was, however, one problem. I have some knowledge of when people are not telling me the whole truth, so I used my time before coming here to follow up on certain suspicions of mine. You did not mention that your employer knew full well about Mr. Hempton Black's qualifications as a potential heir, nor that such was the reason for his employment. You also left out one other key fact about the inheritance rules, the fact that you hoped would prove pivotal to your plans. Had any potential beneficiary been convicted of a crime that involved more than a calendar year in jail, they would lose their right to inherit. By pinning the death of your employee on your colleague, you stood to scoop the whole pool for yourself.”

Mr. Clegg scowled.

"You had the advantage that no-one knew of your status", Sherlock went on. "I made inquiries, and although you did visit clients on the days of the first two murders, you neglected to mention not only that both meetings were very short, but also that on each case they were close to where the victims on those days lived. You had you plenty of time to catch a train, kill your cousins, and then return to London. I dare say that, once we had seen you off from this station, 'Mr. Nicholas Clegg' would have mysteriously vanished, no doubt done to death by the same person who killed your employer. Which reminds me.....”

Sherlock stood up and went over to the door. He opened it, and three people came in. Two were policemen, and Mr. Clegg's jaw dropped when he saw the third. A very alive Mr. Jefferson Garrideb, who stared angrily at his employee.

“I warned Mr. Jefferson by telegram of your murderous intentions”, Sherlock said, “and persuaded the customs officials to draw him aside so that I could have further words with him this morning. He knew full well not to eat or drink anything that you gave him, and I gave him a medication proscribed by the doctor here, which rendered him unconscious for five minutes. That is also one of the rare occasions that I have ever heard the good doctor openly lie about a diagnosis, so you did achieve something. You will also be interested to know that the police have secured the coffee that you brought your cousin this morning, and are having it tested for poison. I have the strange feeling that that particular test will be positive.”

“I saw Hemmy!” the man moaned. “With my own eyes. He was right here!”

The door opened again, and a man came in with a coat over his arm. Sherlock smiled.

“Meet Mr. Mark Walborough, a talented actor friend of mine”, he said. “Mr. Black was kind enough to loan us his coat for the day – thank you, Mr. Walborough, your own coat is on the rack over there – to complete the illusion. Now, I think we have detained the police for long enough, and that they have a cell with your name on it. Gentlemen, please?”

Mr. Clegg lunged at Sherlock, and I did not hesitate. He screamed as a bullet penetrated his leg, and fell to the ground. I did not like doing it, but I bandaged him up (roughly) before the police dragged him away. Another case successfully concluded, and we could head for the safety and warmth of our dear Baker Street rooms.

Ah....

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Mr. Hempton Black refused his employer's offer of an immediate partition of the estate and, on Mr. Jefferson's death just after the Great War, only accepted half of his entitlement, splitting the other half between his late employer's two surviving children. He himself rose to an important position in the Civil Service, and is now married with a family of his own.

+~+~+

Next, some blue-eyed person has been keeping things from me.


End file.
